


The Storyteller

by orphan_account



Category: Being Human (UK), The Almighty Johnsons
Genre: M/M, Maybe kind of sad, Why can't I write plot, it just is, this doesn't really have a plot, why can't I write happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2018-02-10 23:22:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2044098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders Johnson has lived a life of lies and stories. Mitchell can be trusted with the truth, but Anders doesn't seem to see it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Storyteller

John Mitchell was an observant man. It was something he had learned in his longer than average life, and it was something he wasn’t about to let go of. And so he knew more about Anders Johnson than even Anders Johnson himself might have guessed.

He had known from the moment the blond had began speaking that he was a storyteller. At times, the words seemed to pound through his blood, rushing, addictive madness. At times, he seemed less than aware of the power his words held, oblivious of how captivating he was. Anders Johnson was a storyteller, even when he sat in silence Mitchell could feel the electric words buzzing in his ears. And so it didn’t come as a surprise to the vampire when Anders explained how he was the vessel of Bragi. Mitchell was content. Bragi. It suited the other man. The world was right.

John Mitchell was an observant man. He saw the loneliness in the other’s stride, heard the fear in his voice. He listened to the stories, everyday occurrences made brilliant by Anders’ way of forming the words, and realised that although the stories often concerned the blond, they were never really _about_ him. The god told of his life without letting Mitchell know anything about himself. The vampire found it intriguing. It was rare that someone could intrigue him.

Even as they fell into bed together, even as they fell in love together, Mitchell could not brush past the stories and reach Anders himself. As he delved ever deeper, he realised that few people, if any, had been this far before. Nobody usually tried to truly understand Anders, content with the soft stories Anders spun around himself like a cocoon in which he could be safe from the world.

John Mitchell was an observant man. He saw the other Johnson brothers trying, saw them give up much too early, resign themselves to their fate of never truly knowing Anders Johnson. He saw the broken smile, the painted mask, the shattered shield Anders held before him to fend off any attempts of tearing his cocoon apart to reach whatever was inside. He saw it all and it made his heart break.

Anders Johnson was a storyteller through and through, even without Bragi to lend fire to his words. He shrouded himself continually, pulling up fake smiles so easily that Mitchell knew he had almost fooled himself.

John Mitchell was an observant man. He saw the exhaustion in Anders’ bearing, in his face, in his eyes, and he slipped under and around him as silent support. And finally, finally Anders Johnson lay bare. He lay bare and beautiful, electrifying, intriguing, addictive, and Mitchell felt his heart well up and burst and mend and heal. And he could see Anders’ following suit, as if all it had been waiting for was Mitchell’s guidance.

John Mitchell was an observant man. He watched Anders heal; he saw the scars in the wrinkles around his eyes, in the fake smile he could still paint on easily. But he was healing, and whenever they were alone, away from the world, he pulled off his shrouds of told and untold tales and remained bare, letting Mitchell see him. And the vampire did the same, removing a cloak of blood and shadows and allowing himself to be vulnerable, just for once.

Anders Johnson was a storyteller, but it was John Mitchell who taught him to tell the tales his heart thirsted for.


End file.
